Page 71 of One Adult, Please

Beck steps past him, axe low, efficient, his grin gone because this room has no space for grin-shaped behavior.

The second wrong person staggers forward slower, sedative starting to drag its limbs out of order.

Grant moves in beside me, knife already in his hand. "Don't watch," he says.

"I wasn't planning to."

He finishes the darted one quickly. Then the treatment room door bangs open all the way. Because the west band-aid house is having office hours.

"Cot," Joel says.

We push.

The rolling cot slams sideways into the treatment room doorway. Its wheels squeal across the tile. One wrong person hits it from the other side and bends over the mattress, arms reaching, jaw working. A second presses in behind it. A third tries to wedge through the gap between cot and wall.

Beck swings, but the axe catches the edge of a cabinet. "Too tight," he says.

I jam the friendship paddle across the cot because apparently the friendship paddle has been promoted to medical infrastructure.

The wrong person on the cot grabs the paddle. Its fingers close over the blade.

"No," I tell it.

It pulls.

I pull back. "This is not your paddle. This paddle has friends."

Joel drives his shoulder into the cot from my left. Grant grabs the IV pole beside the wall and hooks it through the cot frame, pinning the wheels against the baseboard. Beck drops the axe angle, steps in close, and uses the handle like a lever against the wrong person's chest instead of trying to swing.

For three seconds, we're not four people. We're one terrible machine made of panic, furniture, and bad posture.

The wrong person's hand slips on the paddle.

I shove. Joel shoves. The cot slams forward, crushing the first two wrong people back into the treatment room doorway.

Grant shifts beside me, close enough that I feel his sleeve brush mine, and fires past my shoulder.

"Grant!"

"It was clear."

"It went past my ear!"

"Your ear was not the target."

"That's not as comforting as you think."

The dart hits the third wrong person in the throat.

Grant winces. "Not ideal."

"Is it still going to work?"

"Yes."

"Then we'll discuss your bedside manner later."

Behind us, something bumps the outside door.